Hull is by far the biggest town in the East Riding of Yorkshire, but Beverley is the county town, which shows how significant it was in the past. Lying around 10 miles north-west of Hull, its history goes back beyond the Norman Conquest to the 7^th century when it was part of the Anglian Kingdom of Northumbria. Without doubt, it’s a town that I would have liked to have got to know more intimately if circumstances had allowed, but that wasn’t going to be the case today.

Beverley appears to get its name from the proliferation of beavers that were common in the area when John, the Bishop of York, retired to his monastery here in the early 8^th century. This monastery was the forerunner of the magnificent Beverley Minster that stands majestically over the town today, and although technically it’s only a parish church, some people think of it as a rival to York Minster – at least architecturally.

It’s understandable in some ways, because it was built around the same time (13^th-15^th centuries) and in the same stone, – but why was such a grand church built here in the first place? Beverley may have been an important town, but it was nowhere near as important as York. The simple answer is that the site became a shrine to Bishop John who was one of the leaders of the early Northumbrian church. He was idolised within his own lifetime for performing miracles, but he was also responsible for ordaining the father of English history – the Venerable Bede. Bede later wrote an account of some of the miracles that John was said to have performed, and in 1037, after becoming canonised, he became known as St John.

As you can imagine, Beverley Minster was the one place that I really wanted to visit, but it didn’t quite work out the way I’d hoped. Firstly, being a Sunday morning, there was a service in progress (which I knew there would be), and so we headed back into the historic town centre with the idea of coming back when the service was over. It had already started to snow even before we left the Minster, but by the time we got to Butcher Row it was snowing quite heavily.

It wasn’t really sightseeing weather to be honest, and the most sensible thing to do was to take respite in the Kavanagh Tea Rooms and watch shoppers struggling with their last minute Christmas shopping.

After warming up with some hot drinks and bacon paninis, we wrapped up and headed back towards the Minster where the service was just ending. I’d like to show you some pictures of the inside, but I haven’t got any, and that’s because, as the trains on the Hull to Scarborough branch line only run once an hour, we felt that discretion was the better part of valour, and just have a quick look around the church before opting to take the next available train back to Hull.

Our trip out to Beverley wasn’t a resounding success where sightseeing was concerned I have to admit, but I always say that it’s better to see somewhere that you want to see for a short while, rather than not see it at all – and if nothing else, it did get us into the Christmas spirit.

The train was just coming in as we arrived, and we were back in Hull in no time. I think we made the right decision because there was still some sightseeing I wanted to do in the Museums Quarter, and although it wasn’t snowing, it was bitterly cold, and Kay left me to it while she went back to the hotel to thaw out. To be honest, if she’d had her way, we would have been on the next train back home.

The Museums Quarter consists of four museums located behind locked gates in High Street. They are, the Hull and East Riding Museum, the Arctic Corsair (a former deep-sea fishing trawler), Streetlife, and the one I wanted to see the most – the Wilberforce Museum.

The Wilberforce Museum is the birthplace of William Wilberforce, the man who is most associated with the abolition of slavery in the British Empire. Built around 1660, it is one of the oldest buildings in the city and backs on to the River Hull. It was occupied by various wealthy merchants, including William’s father, Robert, whose only son was born in an upstairs room on 24^th August 1759.

There is no evidence to suggest that Hull merchants were ever involved in the slave trade, and it was his education, both at Hull Grammar School and Cambridge University, that brought him into contact with people who influenced him in religion and politics, and at the age of just 21 he became MP for Hull.

His first abolition speech was made in 1789, but it took numerous attempts and a further 18 years before his bill to abolish the slave trade was passed, but there was still a need to abolish slavery altogether. Due to ill health, it was left to others to continue the fight, and it wasn’t until 22^nd July 1833, a few days before he died, that the Slavery Abolition Act was finally passed.

The story about William Wilberforce and the abolition of the Slave Trade demands more space than I can give it here, but you can see what the museum is like by taking a look at the video clip with Aled Jones below. Although Wilberforce, through his spiritual mentor, John Newton, is more associated with the hymn Amazing Grace, the clip ends with Laura Mvula singing a rendition of We Shall Overcome supported by Britain’s favourite choirmaster, Gareth Malone.

Even though slavery isn’t perhaps as inhumane as it once was, it still prevails now, and this gospel song, made famous by the American Civil Rights movement is as relevant today as it’s ever been.

Entry to the Wilberforce Museum is free, as are all the others here, and virtually next door is Street Life, a museum, which as its name suggests, is all about everyday life in the past. It’s not unique, as I’ve visited quite a few places like this before, but the older I get, the more nostalgic I become, and it wasn’t difficult to spend a good 1½ hours in here. There were the usual different forms of transport on display including veteran cars, trams, and even the bike I had as a kid – or it looked very much like it. You can even walk down a 1940’s street and remember the time that Izal toilet paper, Robin Starch and Fairy Soap were everyday items, and it looks as though the good people of Hull were more fortunate than us because they had a van that came to their door with Esso Blue and other necessities.

One of my regular errands was to traipse up to the ironmongers for a gallon of Esso Blue for the paraffin heater. Global warming wasn’t talked about back then when the inside of the windows were often iced up – and if the coalman didn’t come, we had to rely on paraffin heaters which hardly supplied enough warmth to keep a mouse alive (of which we had plenty who made their home in our terraced house), and not only that, they smelt and were dangerous, believe you me – the paraffin heaters I mean, not the mice.

Stationed outside the Street Life Museum in the river is the Arctic Corsair, but it’s not open to the public at this time of the year, so I shuffled off next door to the Hull and East Riding Museum. I can’t tell you whether it was any good or not because for the 20 minutes or so that was left before they shut up shop I spent talking to a chap who was looking after the place. I don’t think he’d seen anybody all afternoon, and come to think of it, neither had I. Needless to say, he was a Tigers fan and was glad to have somebody to chat to. The conversation started off with football but digressed to all manner of things, and in fact we got so engrossed in our conversation that he forgot to close the museum up, not that it really mattered because nobody was coming in.

When I emerged back out into High Street – guess what? Yep! It was snowing, so there was only one thing to do, and that was to cross the threshold into Ye Olde Black Boy inn, located a few yards down the road. Licensed since 1729, it’s reputed to be the oldest pub in Hull, and whether it had the same name when William Wilberforce was alive I’m not sure, but no doubt he would have been happy to learn that its name has never had any real racial connotations as far as I’m aware.

The pub had a convivial atmosphere, but apart from the barman, I was the only one in here, and like the chap in the museum, he was only too happy to have someone to chat to. I asked him about the selection of Lindisfarne wines that were on offer which I hadn’t come across in a pub before. They came in different flavours, and being a wintry day, I thought I’d try a glass of the Black Beer and Raisin, which lets put it this way, isn’t a choice I would make again.

Any sensible person would have made tracks back to the hotel by now, but I wanted to make sure I hadn’t missed anywhere that I shouldn’t have done before I did (that’s a Malcism by the way), and one of those places was the area around Trinity Church.

This was the church where William Wilberforce was baptised in 1759 and is no ordinary church. According to Wikipedia, it’s the largest parish church in England by floor area, and I know what you’re thinking, what about Beverley Minster? I couldn’t possibly argue over the statistics, but being built mainly from the 14^th century onwards it’s not only large, but has a long history as well, so much so, that the Archbishop of York renamed it Hull Minster in 2017 when the city became the UK City of Culture.

Under different circumstances, I would have no doubt ventured into the Minster, but with the snow starting to make life increasingly difficult underfoot (and I have an unenviable record of ending up on my back in these sort of situations), I did what I should have already done – and head back to the comfort of the hotel and get ready for our journey home tomorrow.

When we got up the following morning I was relieved to find that we hadn’t had any significant snowfall overnight: However, South-West England had, and transport had been seriously affected. After getting earache from you know who with comments like “I told you we should have gone home yesterday”, I offered her the chance to stay another night, which never got the reaction I was hoping for, and we were soon in a taxi driving towards Paragon station – and hopefully, home for Christmas.

Chris Rea – Driving Home for Christmas

In Pt 1, I described the traumatic train journey up to Hull, and now we were having to face another one in the opposite direction. Being well aware that we needed every bit of help we could get today, I checked out my new National Rail app, and found that we could catch an earlier train from Hull to Sheffield than we had originally intended, but on the downside, it was also telling me that the next connecting train from Sheffield to Penzance was cancelled.

Regardless of how things were likely to turn out, we clambered aboard and settled down for the first part of our journey to Sheffield, which was unexpectedly picturesque as we travelled alongside the Humber Estuary and under the Humber Bridge. A sharp overnight hoar frost had left the trees glistening in the early morning sun like Christmas trees without the baubles, and a layer of fog which cloaked the river gave the bridge a ghostly appearance that made it look as though it was hovering in mid-air.

Unfortunately, this fantasy world wasn’t to last, because at Sheffield we were brought back down to earth with the news that there were no trains running down to Penzance. We weren’t the only people wondering what to do for the best, and one young chap in particular, who I got to know as Scott, was in a right two and eight. He was travelling from his home in Barton-upon-Humber down to Torbay to spend Christmas with his parents, and when I told him that was where we were going, he asked if it was ok if he could latch onto us, and so I now had two headless chickens to look after. After what seemed like ages, there was an announcement advising those of us going down to the south-west to catch the next train to Reading and get off at Birmingham New Street. New Street has had a multi-million pound makeover since, but at the time, it was a station I really disliked, but there was no other option.

On arrival at Birmingham it was announced that the train was terminating here, which meant that those going on towards Reading also had to get off, and now there were hundreds of headless chickens running around. Scott and Kay were stressed right out, and I couldn’t resist telling my wife that we should have spent another night in Hull. I know we were going home for Christmas and not Thanksgiving, but it was all starting to remind me of the film Trains, Planes and Automobiles. There were so many conflicting messages here, both verbally and on-screen. The next train to Plymouth at first was on time, then it was delayed, but my app was saying it was cancelled – and it was. Although they were extremely reluctant at first, I eventually convinced the other two that if we got our finger out we could get a train from another platform that was going to Bristol and we could take it from there.

For the sake of expediency, I’m glossing over some of the details, but suffice it to say, my next fear was also to come true. The weather that had hit the south-west was spreading north and by the time we got to Cheltenham there was literally a blizzard raging. Thankfully, we made it to Bristol Temple Meads where the train terminated, but at least I was proved right about not waiting for the Plymouth train at Birmingham because there weren’t any for the rest of the day, and at least we were in the West Country now.

Of course, this meant that there weren’t any trains running from Bristol to Plymouth either. There was only one thing for it. Me and Kay went for a drink in the bar and Scott, who had stuck to me like glue all day, went for a smoke. In the bar was a couple who had spent their day trying to get to Bath from Taunton, but after 5 hours and only getting as far as Bristol (which is normally only 1 stop) decided to call it a day and go back home – but the big question was how? Meanwhile, Scott was having hallucinations. He thought he saw a train going to Paignton on the departures board, but when he went back to double check he had to admit it was a mirage.

It seemed that if we could get to Taunton, then there was a chance we could get a train to Newton Abbot from there. What it meant though was that we needed to travel in the opposite direction from Bristol to Portsmouth and then get off at Westbury in Wiltshire where we could then get the Paddington to Penzance train which was now running. Are you still with me? There were no guarantees that it was going to work, but it was our best option if we didn’t want to spend the night in Bristol.

We  didn’t have any time to waste if we were to get the Westbury train and not miss the Paddington-Penzance connection, and so I left my pint and dashed over to platform 10. I could go on about conflicting messages, delayed trains and all the rest of it but eventually we managed to catch the late running Penzance train at Westbury and were now going in the right direction towards Taunton –  and eventually on to Newton Abbot.

At Newton Abbot we were within touching distance of Torbay: Scott was being picked up here by some members of his family who were having a party somewhere, and he felt really guilty when he could see that our train to Paignton had just left without us. I’ve never seen anybody so grateful as Scott for helping him to get home to see his family and he gave us both a hug as he left – and that was more than enough for me.

We had to wait another 40 minutes for the next train to Paignton, but when Kay saw the delayed message come up on the screen she flipped, and went scampering off to see if there were any taxis hanging around, and sure enough, there was one taxi driver outside still trying to make a living, and before I could ask how much it would cost, she was in the cab like a rat up a drainpipe no matter how much it was.

What should have been a 7½ hour journey turned out to be double that, but at least we were home in one piece. It may have been a crap journey, but was Hull a ‘Crap Town’? Port towns are rarely lovely to look at and the city had obviously seen more prosperous days, but some of the places I’ve enjoyed visiting the most over the years have been those that, on the surface, don’t appear to have much going for them. Having said that, almost all are welcoming – and this was just the same with Hull: The people were fantastic. What’s more, it isn’t the forgotten corner of Yorkshire that it once was and many of the old docks have now been replaced with leisure facilities fit for the 21^st century. Some are new, but some of the old buildings are being restored. When I was here, there was still plenty of work to be done, but being awarded the status of UK Capital of Culture in 2017 seems to have given it a big boost.

I couldn’t possibly have seen everything in the time we had here, and I’m sure there must be places that tourists wouldn’t want to visit, but I learnt enough about the city to say that it’s definitely not a ‘Crap Town’ as far as I’m concerned, but what is crap is the football team I support, and it might not surprise you to learn – and this is no reflection on Hull – that my wife has never put a red and white scarf around her neck and come with me to an away match since.

POSTED – OCTOBER 2023